As I came near the group I heard my wife say to Billy, who looked sadly
haggard and ill, that she was sure he would have got the Bunyip if it
hadn't been for the terrible drought; and at that, regardless of my
presence, he took her by the arms and kissed her, and then she kissed him
several times.

Perhaps I ought to have mentioned before that Billy was just nine years
old.






THE STRANGERS' HUT

I had come a long journey across country with Glenn, the squatter,
and now we were entering the homestead paddock of his sheep-station,
Winnanbar. Afar to the left was a stone building, solitary in a waste
of saltbush and dead-finish scrub. I asked Glenn what it was.

He answered, smilingly: "The Strangers' Hut. Sundowners and that lot
sleep there; there's always some flour and tea in a hammock, under the
roof, and there they are with a pub of their own. It's a fashion we have
in Australia."

"It seems all right, Glenn," I said with admiration. "It's surer than
Elijah's ravens."

"It saves us from their prowling about the barracks, and camping on the